


The Big Brother Protocol

by Aud_McCartney



Series: KingsSHIELD [4]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Kingsman (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Iron Man 1, join me as I publish the reasons I zone out in my feelings for 70 percent of the day, not that I wasn't committed already (and should be) but now I'm inflicting it on all of you, special thanks to faeriviera for the indoctrination, that's right bitches; I'm finally committing to the crossover, these boys are my sons and that's the only tea I drink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aud_McCartney/pseuds/Aud_McCartney
Summary: Pro tip from a former hostage: don’t forget to tell your oldest pal you’re home.





	The Big Brother Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> See new series notes for relevant backstory. (Or just dive in and wing it. I'm not your mother.) Also, [I drew these idiots](https://deepfriedtwinkie.tumblr.com/post/184514105130/so-faeriviera-and-i-have-had-this).

—10880 MALIBU POINT—

—MAY 2008—

“Hey. DUM-E. Not over there. Come on. I mean it. I am _this close_ to recycling you. Bring– Hey. Bring the torch over here and put it down. Yeah. I warned you. You lost your torch privileges. How does it feel? You proud of yourself?”

The chair creaks as Tony leans back, balancing his weight on the back wheels, watching his number-one robot arm droop toward him in defeat. It looks sad, which is sad in its own right, because a bunch of rods and hinges commanding actual empathy is probably a new low point in his social life. For two seconds, he wonders idly about building a new assistant, but by the time his brain finishes the sentence, the idea’s already boring. Too much busywork. Not enough craft.

He’s got one or two other things on deck right now.

DUM-E drops the welding torch on the edge of Tony’s workstation. “_Thank_ you,” he says, his outstretched arm pointing across the room. “See that lever? That’s your job. Rest of the week. Producing wind resistance for the propulsion trials. You are _literally_ in charge of air. Think you can handle that? Pull that when I tell you. Go. Don’t grovel, I hate groveling.”

Rather than watch it limp away like Yeller, Tony swivels right. There’s a spread of blueprints on his desk that need a second look. It feels like there’s something else in there that he’s supposed to do… It’s probably a mess or something. He’ll tidy it all up in the morning. If it isn’t morning.

His forehead does an involuntary scrunch as he tilts his coffee cup. The stain inside is dry. Maybe it’s already been morning today. Maybe morning was a while ago.

Morning was probably a while ago.

Something’s beeping, over on the…somewhere. Somewhere to his general center-left. It’s definitely either the phone line or the intercom, unless it’s the front door. Not that it matters which one. Nobody’s coming down here, and he’s not going up. Pepper can handle the press.

“_What’s the matter with you? Don’t you pick up the phone anymore?_”

Maybe she can fire Happy, too.

Tony’s jaw grinds a full half-circle. He cranes his neck, resting his temple on two fingers. “JARVIS, I thought I told you no phone calls?”

_–Apologies, sir. My instructions were overridden by Mr. Hogan via the estate’s emergency security protocol.–_

“_Besides, you want this call. It’s a courtesy call. A warning. We’ve got a problem._”

‘Problem’ is his least-favorite word this week. Problems mean delays. They also occasionally mean getting captured and bunking in a cave for three months with a car battery wired to your chest, but he’s not gonna take that road right now.

“Happy, is this a ‘me’ problem or a ‘you’ problem? Because ‘you’ problems should be largely automotive. And those are officially below my radar as of today.”

“_All I know is that you told me in no uncertain terms to classify it as a problem when your British buddy shows up unannounced_.”

Son of a bitch.

_Now_ he remembers the other thing he was supposed to do.

“_Personally I don’t get your angle there, I think he’s a decent guy if you ask me, but hey, I’m just the help, so I shut up and I help._”

There are exactly two hundred and eighty-four punchlines to that setup, but they’re held up in traffic by the conga line of expletives flowing from Tony’s brain to his mouth. He bites them back. Better to let them out at the robots later.

“How sure are we that it’s him?”

“_Ninety-seven, ninety-eight percent. I’m watchin’ the guy through the window right now. He’s talking to Pepper. I dunno how he got in; it must’ve been a security breach. He must’ve gone through the ducts or something._”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. There’s a time and a place for Happy’s weird lifelong dream of being the bridgekeeper from _Holy Grail_, and one day, he’ll figure out when and where those are. Keep hope alive.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, Serpico: he got in through the back door.”

“_How do you know that?_”

“Because he knows the security code. And he knows you’re sitting in the big shiny car parked at the _front_ door.”

“_Hey. I am at _every_ door. I’m everywhere._”

“Will you just check the back door, please? Get me confirmation? Can you make that happen?”

“_Yeah, hang on, I’m gonna have to get eyes on this._”

The ensuing silence either means that Happy’s really committing to his best _Mission Impossible_, or that he’s just spontaneously died and nobody’s noticed yet. The ceiling is absolutely no entertainment at all until he reports back. Neither is chucking balled-up paper at DUM-E and U.

“_There’s a black Aston Martin out here. How does a tailor afford a rental like that? Does he even have an American driver’s license?_”

“Gotta go, thanks for the warning.”

Hanging up is a hell of a lot easier than dodging either of those questions. Especially considering he really doesn’t know the answer to that second one. Something to ask at Thanksgiving.

_–Shall I enact the Fallout Shelter Protocol, sir?–_

JARVIS poses a halfway decent idea. That’d probably help. And he’d get back to work a lot faster. Except that he’d pay for it for the next year and a half. At _minimum_. If anyone could make three months with the Ten Rings look like an extended detox on Ricky Martin’s private island, it’d be Harry Hart and his patented personal brand of inescapable, passive-aggressive–

Footsteps on the stairs.

“Shit. _Shit_.”

No time like the present to spastically jab every sleep button in reach.

“JARVIS, go to sleep. Bedtime. Night-night.”

Quickly he arm-sweeps the whole pile of blueprints into a drawer and knees it shut. The shadow in the stairwell starts to shrink down to a human shape, and at the last second, he remembers the dead giveaway glowing faintly beneath his t-shirt. He yanks up his hoodie zipper so fast it tries to take his thumb with it. That’s gonna sting tomorrow.

By the time Harry materializes at the end of the stairs, Tony is completely nonchalant, feigning some paper-shuffling. Totally nonchalant and definitely not remotely suspect at all.

“Hey, if you’re here for the party, you’re a little late,” he calls out across the room. “Roll call for the welcoming committee was three days ago.”

From the corner of his eye, Tony clocks that Harry isn’t undoing his jacket button. Which means he won’t be sitting. Which means he’ll be pacing. Which is…not what you want.

Maybe he should’ve gone for the Fallout Shelter Protocol.

“It was the day before yesterday.”

Turning right, Harry starts off on a slow stride around the perimeter, taking in the room. Tony watches; Harry’s back is to him for the most part, so it’s safe to keep a visual on him without making a big deal about it or anything. He looks the same. Tall. British. Endorsed by Burberry. Somewhere very, very deep in Tony’s psychological makeup as a human being, there’s probably something comforting about seeing the familiar constant that is his old chum, sure, but right now he’s a little too wary of an impending ass-chafing to get all sentimental.

“I’ve been tied up on assignment,” Harry offers. It’s more of a statement of fact than a justification. “No agent is dismissed until debriefing is complete and countersigned by Arthur. I’m no exception, unfortunately, not even for the homecoming of ‘The’ Tony Stark.”

“What _is_ debriefing for you guys, anyway?” He’s always wondered.

“Think of it as a press conference, only secret, and completely devoid of the hyperventilating media undulating for attention at your feet, as if you were the second coming of Bono.”

“Well that sounds boring.”

The deflection dies about as quickly as he expected it to. At least he gave it a shot. He watches Harry pick up a replica Cloud Gate sculpture from the bookshelf, casually inspecting it like it’s a piece of beach junk that washed up onto his picnic. That face isn’t what you want, either.

It probably doesn’t make sense to feel six again, but.

“Speaking of press conferences.”

“We don’t…have to speak of press conferences. Just saying, we can skip that whole–”

“I happened to have had the fortune of catching yours. And I’m not sure what part caused me to question my vision more.” For the first time since arriving, Harry is staring straight at him. It’s like a plasma beam boring through his head before he even looks up to confirm where the heat’s coming from. “The fact that you were home in one piece, or Howard Stark’s son slumping to the floor to devour a fucking cheeseburger on international news.”

Tony scratches his nose. Makes dodging eye-contact look less intentional. “Yeah, well, Dad was always fond of a drive-in, so. Genetic predisposition.”

There’s something about Harry’s tone that tends to come down like a sonic boom when he’s like this. It’s not even _loud_, but the reverb makes impact like electromagnetic waves on dry earth.

“I ought to feel lucky I was informed _somehow_, I suppose. My gratitude to C-SPAN.”

“Hey.” Tony raises his palms; lying quickly is the easiest way out of this. Or at least it’s the fastest. “_I_ said somebody should call you. I had the idea. Me, I was shell-shocked. That was Pepper’s job. Except then Rhodey said _he_ was gonna do it, so she took it off the to-do list, I think, but then Rhodey didn’t do it, so you see what happened there? Just one big miscommunication after another–”

Harry’s palm goes up, too. Just the one. “Stop there. You should keep what dignity you have left. It’s already critically endangered.”

“Hey. Lord & Tailor. Words sting, did you know that?”

On the other hand, he’s not…_exactly_ wrong, per se.

It’s time to take the wheel back, here. Tony ditches his rolling chair and hops up on the edge of his desk instead. There’s a bag of dried apricots behind the monitor he totally forgot was there, and he grabs it, pouring a few into his hand.

“So.” He pops the fruit into his mouth and talks around it. “Did you think I was dead? Bet you did. Hundred percent you thought I was dead.”

It would’ve been really satisfying to get a hesitant answer, or at least a pause first, but he doesn’t. Lame. Figures.

“Not for a moment,” Harry dismisses. Just that easy. He sounds like Aunt Peg. The pause comes _after_ he says that, while he phones in a shitty performance of skimming the bookshelf. “I expected your mouth to get you throttled within an inch of your life—and then for your massive head and typical recklessness to scheme your way out of it, like anything else. You never were programmed to be bested by anything. Or anyone.”

That is true. Still would’ve been nice to earn a few tears, though. And maybe a vigil shouldn’t’ve been too much to ask. Or at least a sad, pandering Facebook status. Jesus, the shit a guy has to go through to get a little love.

Tony points with another apricot in his hand. “One of these days, you are gonna think I’m dead. And you will be sad. Totally devastated. Even if you don’t admit it.” He eats that one, too, then holds out the bag and gives it a shake. “You might actually frown for reasons other than that just being how your face is.”

Harry’s smirking as he comes over. “Possibly. Not that _you’d_ know.”

“Well I won’t really be dead, though. And I’ll have hired somebody to get it on camera.”

“Mmhm. Don’t be surprised when you find them bound and unconscious.”

Harry digs out his own apricot and goes back to strolling around the workshop. This is good. It’s going well. Comparatively. Maybe that back there was as headmaster-y as it’s gonna get today. That’d be one to file in the miracle column, but hell, weirder things have happened. Weirder things are in this _room_. Maybe they can just hang out now. That could be fun. Unusual, but fun.

“I suppose Obadiah’s up to his ears in press, just the way he likes, the leech.”

Or, y’know, yeah. Maybe not.

“See, why do you do that?” Tony slides off the desk and meanders a few steps, folding his arms. Catching Harry chewing might be his only chance to get a word in edgewise. They don’t talk with their mouths full over there. “What is this whole thing you’ve got against Obie, anyway?”

He’d go on, but the time-out’s over already. He should buy bigger fruit.

“He’s a windbag,” Harry declares succinctly.

Well, yeah. “Tell me something I haven’t known since the eighties.”

“Perhaps that you’re naïve if you think there’s a damn thing he wouldn’t do to make a dime off of your name and brain.”

Tony’s jaw locks. He’s gonna have to send U over there with a bucket and a Wonder Mop to get all that dripping derision off the floor before it stains, or eats through to the wine cellar like battery acid. If there’s a hole there tomorrow, he’ll know why.

Harry’s not done yet, either, apparently. “He’s too comfortable, that’s what I’ve got against him. He feels as though he owns you. It’s fucking obvious; I’ll never know how you’ve failed to see it all this time.” Prince Charles swipes a finger along a glass case, collecting a fine line of dust, examines it, and sprinkles it into midair.

“Yeah, okay, no. Don’t do that.” It’s probably petty to press the button that closes the trophy case Harry’s been looking at. Oh well. “We’re not gonna do this. ’Kay? Not everybody’s got that gold-star Kingsman reputation—by the way, how’s Princess Diana?”

Bingo, nicked the company sore spot. Harry’s so purse-lipped on cue that it’d be way too easy to store quarters in him. “You know damn well we don’t talk about that.”

“Then don’t talk about Obie.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

“Yeah, but you don’t get to come here and pick a fight, sorry.”

“I didn’t come here to pick a fight. I came here–”

“To call me a puppet and Obie Geppetto, basically; is that what I’m getting?”

“Only in his mind. It won’t be reality unless you allow it.”

Harry’s still calm and cool. He’s _always_ calm and cool. And it’s always irritating. Tony’s starting to feel that familiar old itch. It’s like wearing a wool sweater about three sizes too small, in the middle of August, but around your brainstem, and it’s been happening off-and-on for twenty years or so. Maybe it’s chronic. Whatever you call it, it’s giving him his next invention idea: an emergency exit device for everyday conversations. With an eject button.

Tony takes a few more steps forward. “Are we forgetting that Obie’s the reason I even have this company?” It’s too late for the side of his brain that didn’t want to get into this. It’s being duct-taped to a chair by the other half. Nice knowing it.

“Your _father_ is the reason you have this company.”

“Uh, no, my father never formally guaranteed me squat, Moneypenny, and you know he didn’t. Obie’s the one who vouched for me, who saved my spot when the shareholders were foaming at the mouth to bring in somebody else–”

“And why do you think he did? The fact that you feel so indebted to him should be enough of an answer for you.”

That hardline gaze of Harry’s is seriously enough to make a guy want to haul off and punch him. But that’d get Pepper running down here, and that’s the last thing he wants. So he hurls a different blow instead, the first and nastiest one to cross his mind, before he has time to regret it.

“Yeah, well maybe I’m just inclined to stick by the guy who hung around after the accident.”

That’s the one. That one gets Tony exactly what he wanted. Harry shuts up. The abrupt recoil is subtle in his immobile expression, but it’s there in his eyes. It’s sickly satisfying.

“You know I stayed for as long as I could.”

Harry’s tone’s a lot softer now. Chastised, almost. Tony hates the part of himself that wants to hear it some more. To twist the knife a little. But somebody else is driving now. Somebody who’s clearly drunk, because he doesn’t talk about this crap, and he doesn’t grind his heel down on the people who mean well, and he doesn’t know what’s coming when his mouth opens; just that it’s acidic and petty, and he can’t stop it. The wire’s been tripped.

“And that’s relative to what, exactly? Since when was ‘sticking around’ ever your thing in the first place? I seem to remember you leaving pretty much over and over again, in fact.”

Right now, Harry looks a lot older than he is, and sounds weaker and more tired than he should. Tony resents him for that, too. Might as well add that to the list, now that it’s too late to walk any of this back. Why the hell not.

“Location never once changed the fact that you were first priority. I always made myself available to you. I had my own life, just as you had yours…boarding school, MIT…but I was never more than a phone call away.”

“You left first. You went to London.” It sounds like his own voice, but Tony isn’t sure anymore. It’s saying things that never even cross his mind. “You bailed when I was _six_.”

“I’ve never ‘bailed’ on you.” As pained as that comes out, it’s not even clear why Harry’s still defending himself. He sounds like he’d rather crawl under something and die, and yet he keeps going, getting stronger, so god knows what his motive is. “I was sixteen. I was not about to pass up an admission to one of the most prestigious universities in the world. And when you were six, you were building V-8 engines. You were intellectually a teenager. There was nothing more I could have offered you by staying.”

“So?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. So what?”

None of this should be coming up. He didn’t want a fight. He should’ve had JARVIS lock the doors. Pepper should’ve said he wasn’t home. He has a team to keep him in check for a reason, and they should’ve done better than this.

He should have slept by now. This is his own fault. Fifteen thousand things he can do with his mind, and shutting his own mouth isn’t one of them.

“Did you ever stop to think that even when I didn’t need a governess anymore, maybe I could’ve still used a friend? Because I had _one_, okay? _One_. I’ll give you one guess who that was. Possibly the only other kid I was even allowed to _be_ around. The only other kid on the _planet_ with a parent like mine. The only other kid who knew what it was like—hell, how many other ten-year-olds have SHIELD clearance? And why did you have that, again? Oh, that’s right: because you were being primed. You were supposed to _join_ SHIELD. I mean for god’s sake, you… You had everything at home. You might’ve actually been the first kid in history to get _grandfathered_ into a top-secret organization, and you didn’t take it. And because what? You couldn’t get decent bangers and mash in the Bronx?”

There should be blood all over the room. His own. At least that’s what it feels like. Harry looks injured, but Tony’s the one paling.

He’s a gas tank, and all poor Harry did was light a cigarette.

“I wasn’t ‘supposed’ to do anything,” Harry says quietly.

“Yeah. Except you were, though. Everybody thought it.”

“_I_ didn’t. And Mother didn’t either. I wanted to build a legacy of my own.”

“Yeah? And how’s that goin’ for ya? Building a legacy that _no one_ will remember?” God, it’s not stopping. There’s no lever for this. Physically vomiting would feel better, but he’s locked out of the decision process. “Because it seems to me like one of these days, somebody’s gonna drag you off, just like they did me, except they’re gonna do it because they know you’re a spy. And instead of making you their handyman, they’re just gonna blow your head off. And then what, Harry, huh? Who’s gonna know?”

“You’ll know.” Harry vows it as if he was asking for a serious answer. As if all of this was anything more than an ugly purge from a human trainwreck with a hair trigger. “Merlin has contact instructions in case of the worst.”

Tony scoffs. He’s exhausted. The topic’s derailed so many times he can’t remember where it started anymore. All he remembers is being the one to jerk the wheel, which is pretty cruel, as memory-retention goes. And fitting.

“Great. That’s…that’s great. Except what’ll it be _for_, Harry? You getting yourself killed. Huh? What is the point?”

If all he’s done for the past ten minutes was kick Harry in the Cadburys, Tony knows the shift he’s seeing in him now is Harry standing back up.

“The _point_ is assuring that the world as we know it will continue turning for the people I love. Whether I remain in it or not. _That_ is the point.”

“Yeah. Well. You sound like another sucker I knew, and he’s dead now, but okay. Sure.”

The nausea rebounds. Instantly, and worse. He didn’t mean that. That’s not how he should ever, ever refer to Yinsen. He won’t do that again.

It’s painfully clear who the real sucker is. The insecure, total hypocrite with the chip on his shoulder, batting a goddamned thousand.

“You should be astoundingly grateful that _you_ weren’t killed, with what you pulled.” The full force of Harry’s lecture tone isn’t in it, but there are traces there. He’s done taking his licks, seems like, and he’s gonna say what he came to say. Just fantastic. “Do you have any idea how many hundreds of ways that stunt of yours could have backfired? Betting your life on a garish, medieval monstrosity of spare-parts armor that you fashioned in a _cave?_ Sometimes I wonder whether you really should be clinically examined.”

That’s another twinge. It shouldn’t be, because it’s true. The whole plan was insanity. But it _worked_. And it’s gonna work again. And better. And Harry isn’t right about everything.

No. Harry doesn’t _have_ the right.

He can hear it whistle. The H-bomb.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I had a wealth of escape options,” Tony mutters sharply, looking away. Then right back on target, with a damning, brittle stare that burns him back. “It’s not like, oh, I dunno. Like anyone I know is a spy.”

Impact.

Bitterness is gonna be the last friend he has left. Everything else will be smoldering, and that’s what he’ll have. Just solitude in one cave after another.

At least it’s better than the things he could’ve said instead. ‘Where were you’ might’ve killed him. Still might. Same as ‘Why didn’t you come.’ His jaw won’t move to let him say ‘I needed you.’ That kind of honesty’s the opposite of armor.

Harry’s stone, sunken face is a black hole of guilt and anger, and it shuts him up, hard. That’s it. That’s the ‘kill’ switch. Tony wishes it really would.

Death doesn’t come, though. Confusion does.

Harry’s staring dead-on at him, tight-lipped as he reaches into his jacket, pulling out a manila folder. Wordlessly he throws it down on the far end of the desk; it slaps onto the surface and slides to him, stopping inches from his right hand. Page corners fan out from the mouth.

Tony’s eyes fall to it, rise to Harry, hit a wall, and lower again. He picks it up, flipping the cover.

Inside are pages and pages of handwritten notes. Pixelated prints of surveillance stills. Maps of varying detail, road and topographical, covered in scribbles and scars of red pen. That’s just the first few pages; there’s more. There are mugshots of Afghanistani arms dealers. American black market brass. Five of them are marked as dead. Behind those, calendar pages for February, March, April, May. He sees flashes of the words ‘last known’ beside bullet points in multiple dates’ boxes. There are transcripts on fax paper. One he recognizes as a conversation with Rhodey, just before another with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And after that, there are bus tickets. Forged papers from the Marine Corps. A press pass, counterfeit.

There’s a thin piece of scorched aluminum Tony recognizes. It’s from the side of his humvee.

“Insubordination is done on hard copy. Where it can’t be accessed.” Harry’s new tone sounds like a man who’s swallowed glass, and would do it again. “By April the sixth, I was told by Arthur in no uncertain terms that I would be fired if I spent another day on my, as he put it, ‘golden fucking goose chase.’ And then I called his bluff, and spent a month more.”

Harry looked for him.

“I found what remained of your stronghold four hours after your escape, according to the cowering locals’ testimonies.”

He’d been looking for him the whole time.

“Or did you think a _psychic_ gave Colonel Rhodes the coordinates for an impromptu flyover?”

He sent the helicopter. Of course he did.

Harry is the reason he’s home.

“I apologize for my failure to accommodate your preferred schedule. Believe me, it won’t soon be forgotten.”

No. It won’t be. Because that’s the way Harry is. You treat him like shit, bend over backwards to keep from giving him the time of day, and what does he do? He drops everything when you go missing. Risks the only career he ever wanted. Spends three months putting his Farsi to good use. Knocking on caves. Losing sleep. Blaming himself. Shanking you for doubting him in one breath, then turning the blade on himself with the next, ’cause he’s already made a scarf of that guilt you’re trying to wrap around his neck, and it’s not even his color.

That’s the guy he’s always been. If Tony was a better person, he’d have said so a long time ago.

He’s not a better person. That’s the theme here. That’s the point.

Tony lets the cover of the folder fall shut as he looks up, probably looking about as pathetically humbled as he feels. He lays it down on the desk and slides it back. Harry’s still leveling that winning injured stoicism at him, and doesn’t so much as glance down, let alone pick it up.

“Thought you said you never worried I was dead?” That’s the best he can muster up.

“I didn’t.” Harry’s more forgiving now. Forgiving; not yielding. “I worried that you were hurt. That very possibly, however unlikely you claim it may be, you were afraid. I worried because you weren’t where you belong. At home.”

He probably doesn’t mean Malibu. This is probably one of those times when ‘home’ means people. Last he checked, there were only a few of those in his corner, but then again. Maybe this one isn’t a numbers game.

“And let me tell you, it was far more apparent than I’d have liked.” Harry takes off his glasses with one hand, rubbing his forehead with the other before putting them back. “Every one of my colleagues who went snooping after my whereabouts fed their penchant for gossip like piranha at the fucking watering hole. They all wondered why on earth I would volunteer to rescue an American billionaire arms dealer in the first place.”

Okay, well, ow. “First of all, don’t say ‘arms dealer’ like that,” Tony mutters, “A, I don’t do that anymore, and B, this from a bunch of guys whose suspenders are more dangerous than my sixteen-piece carving block. Honestly there’s something messed up about that, by the way, I’m just saying.”

“Tony.”

Off-course. Right. “Sorry.” Not that he’s sure what the course is anymore.

Looks like there’s a chance he’s alone there. First Harry takes the folder, tucking it back into his jacket, and then he straightens, respectfully requesting eye contact without needing to say a word. The formal stature does it for him. He’s calm and cool again. And something else this time. Merciful.

“If you’d like me to leave, I’ll leave.”

He’s serious. Maybe it’s a good idea. Try this again some other time when he isn’t on the warpath for everything that moves. When he feels human enough to act like one. That’s clearly not today. This wasn’t the day for… Well. Anything.

Tony looks down and away, bobbing his head. Mumbles, “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

Except that when the silence turns to footsteps, it feels wrong right away. Wrong to call it like this. It’s his same old, trademarked bullshit. He’s back where he always is. He learned _nothing_.

That is enough. It’s _enough_.

“Wait.” Harry’s already halfway back to the door, but he stops, and he turns back around. “You don’t…have to…” Tony turns his own lungs inside-out, rubbing his face, then raking clawed hands through his hair. “None of this is you. It’s me. I failed Coping 101. I’m a Class A screw-up,” he pretty much wordvomits. “I’ve been down here working, I haven’t slept, and… Just… I didn’t mean anything. It’s on me. Forget I said it. Can we just…” He feels his eyes pull some type of pleading six-year-old horseshit he’s not even sure he’s comfortable with. “Can we just start over, here?”

There’s immediate relief when Harry starts to smile, ’cause it’s the right one. The ‘I’m awfully fond of you, despite my better judgment’ one, not the one that happens just before a reckoning.

“I’d like that myself,” he says. “And you know damned well you’re furthest thing alive from a screw-up.”

“Yeah, well.” Tentatively, Tony smiles too. Just a little. That’s the best thanks he can manage right now, but considering he’s a disaster area, it’s not bad. Then he clears his throat, scratching at his neck. That’s enough of a pause before a subject-change, right? Give or take. “So. What’d I miss? How goes it with that kid you’re stalking?”

Harry scoffs lightly as he wanders back over. “I’ve never ‘stalked’ him a day in my life.”

“Whatever you wanna call that Jiminy Cricket thing you’re doing that’s definitely not creepy. What is he now, fifteen? Sixteen?”

There’s that hooked eyebrow thing he does. “I’m impressed you remembered.”

Tony idly rearranges some of the crap on his desk, giving a halfhearted shrug. “I’ve been known to pay attention occasionally. On and off.”

“Eggsy is fine, as far as I can tell,” Harry says. Always the first one back on track. “He’s doing beautifully in secondary and gymnastics, which is all a matter of public record, so don’t give me that look,” he seamlessly segues. He’s not hiding his smirk too well, ’cause it’s audible.

“And one more time: we’re sure that’s a real name? ‘Eggsy?’” Tony squints, but Harry’s face turns less fun, so he shows his palms and moves on. “Nevermind. Y’know, you could always…god, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah. Mellow?”

“Hardly.” Harry pulls over a chair and sits without being invited, which is probably a Kingsman capital sin or something, and is probably a page from his classiest brand of bird-flipping for the crap he pulled earlier. Probably the first of many, too, but he had an English butler; he can take an English punishment. They’re a lot kinder than the ones you get in other places. “I killed his father,” Harry reminds him. “I have a responsibility.”

“No.” Tony holds up an index finger. He’s not listening to this for the billionth time. “Uh-uh. You were _present_–”

“And negligent, and culpable.”

“–don’t interrupt me; when his father made a call, and it killed him. Big difference there.”

“He made the call to save three lives, including mine, that would have been lost in a single blow because of me. You know that.”

Jeez, it’s gotten dark in here today. “You don’t know that, though. Lot of people survive IEDs.” Besides, if he ever hears one more story ever again about some plucky, patriotic upstart throwing himself on a grenade, DUM-E’s gonna have puke to clean up.

Harry’s got an elbow on the desk, and he rests his forehead on two fingers, looking up at him like a tired old bastard. “You really think a technicality will help me sleep any better at night?”

Tony hops up backward to reclaim his seat next to the monitor. “No. Worth a shot.”

“Mm.”

“But you could fight it a little harder in the waking hours, y’know. Remind yourself to put the cross down once in a while.”

He looks down and left, analyzing Harry for a sec. It’s bizarre, what your brain will and won’t let you in on. Earlier, he spun out without even driving, but now… Now he knows when he’s saying things between the lines, and he’s well aware of what they are. He put them there. In a perfect world, they’d be more than just subtext, but he’s him, so. Softening a little is gonna have to sell it for him.

That, and… Maybe dropping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Maybe that’s something he remembers how to do. Maybe that too.

“It’s not your guilt,” he adds, giving just a little more to his grip, just to make sure he gets it. “You gotta put it down. You don’t deserve it.”

The way Harry looks up at him, he knows he’s said the right thing for once. It doesn’t happen often, and it hits him in the gut a little bit. Just a little. Nothing to get emotional about or anything. It’s a drop in the bucket, that’s all, but. Still.

It doesn’t suck, saying something right. It really, really doesn’t. He should try it more often.

“I doubt I can imagine myself tossing the boy to the wind, after all this time.”

“’Course not, you’re you. You still haven’t given up on Wham.”

“All the same…thank you.”

The smile Tony feels coming on is a little sentimental for his taste. He chews it back into his mouth, letting go of Harry’s shoulder to slap him on the back instead. “Yeah, yeah.” He checks his watch; it’s time to pretend his watch is fascinating, then move on really quickly before Harry can bust his balls about what just happened here. “How’s Aunt Peg?”

“Furious with you for making her worry, for one thing.”

Fishing is definitely the next logical move. “See, she was in the army, she danced with syndicates like that. Bet _she_ thought I was dead.”

“Number one, so have I,” Harry lists, “and number two, never. She’s met you.”

“I mean it. One of these days, I’m gonna get you guys,” Tony decrees. He raises a hand to boot, so it’s official, or at least it looks like it. “You are going to think I’m actually dead.”

“How nice to see you setting goals for yourself,” Harry smirks. Except then, he sits up straighter, visibly sobering, and Tony realizes too late that the whole ‘wiseass’ thing just backfired with the unfortunate side effect of calling the Ten Rings Resort & Spa back to mind. That was a dumb move. “I hope you know you aren’t the only one with questions.”

Yep. Saw it coming. A sigh drags out of him, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Fine, you get five. Three if I get bored.”

“I only need one. I’ve gathered the rest on my own.”

“Oh. Well. Good going, then.”

“Are you injured?”

Well, it’s not like that one’s _loaded as shit_ or anything, so that works out really well. Jesus Christ, you could write down the worst possible question for a human being to ask you, seal it in a strongbox on a submarine, blow the goddamned thing up, sink it in fifty yards of seafloor muck, and Harry Hart would be the guy to find it, surface it, and bring it to your front door like a slasher-flick villain who just won’t goddamn die.

“No. Nah.” Screw it. “Yes. Just a tiny, inconsequential smattering, if you will, let’s call it a smattering of shrapnel. Embedded in my chest. Razor-sharp, mobile shrapnel, actually, every second trying to book for my heart like anemic little metal earthworms into a really moldy apple, but it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Harry’s eyes are wide, like that’s upsetting or something. It’s so three months ago; was he not clear about that? An important part of telling himself that on a daily basis is other people believing it, so clearly this whole shocked-face thing is not gonna cut it.

“My god… And nothing’s been _done_ about it?”

Not _nothing_. But he can dodge that for a while, right? “Turns out the surgery’s just as dangerous as leaving it in. Really makes you appreciate life, doesn’t it? Mine, specifically, not in general.”

It can’t be a good thing that Harry’s standing up. It’s definitely not a good thing.

“Let’s see it,” he says, beckoning a hand.

Tony slides off the desk, fighting the urge to physically backpedal, ’cause that’s sure as shit not gonna look good. “Oh come on; what, like I fell off my ten-speed and scraped my knee?” he scoffs. “Harry, unfortunately, this is neither ouchie nor boo-boo. What do you think you’re gonna do, kiss it and make it better?”

And now, because the universe has constants, they’re both talking at the same time.

“’Cause I gotta tell you, you are neither blonde nor leggy enough for that–”

“Just let me have a look at it–”

“I can’t, If I showed you, I’d have to show everybody–”

“–so I can see what we’re dealing with–”

“I’m sorry, who the hell is ‘we’ in this case?”

“–and we can come up with a proper solution–”

“Yeah, I think the proper solution would’ve been not getting–”

“–because a sane person–”

“–_blown up in the first place!_”

“–does not live out their lives with a f–”

“_I’m self-conscious_.”

“_–a fucking chest full of shrapnel!_”

“_Shit! Fine!_ You win! Are you happy?” Tony throws down his hoodie zipper, grabs the hem of his t-shirt and hikes it up, because _nothing is worth continuing this conversation_. The glow of the arc reactor throws a blue cast on Harry’s face, and if it’s the last time his face exists before his head blows up in the conniption he’s about to have, it’s his own damn fault, he had it coming.

Harry’s eyes bulge about as much as physically possible, what with his forehead doing such a great impression of an accordion with an anvil on top of it. You’d think he was staring into the tractor beam of a UFO. It’s so rare to get an ungentlemanly expression from the guy, this should probably go in the ‘win’ column, but.

“Fucking hell,” Harry exhales.

“Yeah, don’t pop a monocle, okay? It looks worse than it is—hey. C’mon. My eyes are up here.”

Not that that works at all. He just keeps staring at it. It’s probably the quietest he’s been since he got here when he mutters, “What have they done…”

Okay. So he actually looks really worried now. That wasn’t the idea here. That was on the ‘avoid’ list. And it’s bringing back a whole bunch of flashbacks he thought he’d either forgotten or repressed—times when he was a kid or a punk teenager and Harry went to bat for him, even when he didn’t deserve it, yadda, yadda, yadda, and it always turned into a whole guilt cycle thing—and he really just doesn’t need that to be the cherry on top of this day. Time to cushion.

“Well, I mean, technically…”

_That_ gets Harry’s attention back. And now he’s got that foreboding face happening, like he’s already guessed where this is going. Tony’s starting to sincerely regret having empathy.

Stunned, Harry alters his question. “What have _you_ done?”

Tony swallows before he answers. That’s probably never actually worked in the history of stalling. “Basically…revolutionized the mobile power source, for one thing, so there’s that.”

“Tony.”

Crap. He’s way past genuinely concerned. Nope. Not going there. Nothing to worry about. He puts his shirt down, taking a deep breath in, and just says it on the exhale. “It’s an arc reactor. I miniaturized it. Y’know, the giant glowy thing at–”

“I remember precisely what the arc reactor is. How did this happen?”

It’s pretty tempting to remind Harry he said he only needed one question. There’s gotta be a card or a medical bracelet or something that ambush victims can flash so that they don’t have to keep retelling the enthralling tale of their own mangling over and over again. That’s a thought. He’ll have Pepper look into that tonight. Not that it’ll do him any good now. The only way he’d ever get out of telling Harry what went down would’ve been to change his address to the cave.

“This guy. He was there; he wasn’t with them. Yinsen.” Tony realizes it’s the first time he’s said that name out loud since he escaped. He looks away. Clears his throat. Tries not to let it sting. “I would’ve died. He dragged me out. Did what he could. Rigged a car battery to a magnet to keep the shards he couldn’t get at from coming any closer. I’m the one who replaced it with this.”

Harry’s apprehensive. And still isn’t sold on all this. For an espionage professional, he’s obvious about it. Tony clocks the way he glances down at the glow and back. Like maybe it might spontaneously overload and electrocute him.

“So… This…modification… It’s keeping you alive.”

He nods. “Only in the literal sense, yes, exactly.”

“Is it–?”

“Safe? No. Not at all. I thought what’d be really entertaining is if I gather all the shareholders and then violently defibrillate myself in the middle of the floor.”

Harry’s scowl comes back. It’s actually kind of a mission accomplished. Who knew that’d be preferable to something? “Prick.”

“Yes. It’s safe. I’ve had it for months. Okay? And it’s _working_.”

What Tony expects will happen next and what actually does are two very different things. He’s got years of experience setting off alarms in his head, and yet…no avalanche. It’s like ‘working’ was a magic word or something. Because Harry is actually, very gradually, starting to _smile_. In a good way and everything. If he drops dead of shock, hopefully at least JARVIS will know why.

“So it is.” Harry’s palm comes down on his shoulder, and the grip jostles him a little, like he just won MVP of the football game. Or whatever they have in England. Cricket. “I’ll be damned. So it is.”

It feels safe to let a grin happen at this point, even if it’s a little more sheepish than he’d like. He only notices he’s been wringing his left wrist when he stops doing it. “Not bad, right?”

“No. Not bad at all.”

Fishing for a compliment should probably deduct a little value from it, but for some reason, there’s sort of a refreshing affirmation in not being called crazy for this. Especially by somebody who’s known him since he was a week old, and spent most of the thirty-eight-year interim trying to put him through his own private finishing school where no one ever graduates.

“I ought to’ve known. Only you could possibly come up with a thing like this.”

If he didn’t know any better, that sounded a lot like pride. Maybe he doesn’t know any better. Sure, it might be ’cause he almost died—or maybe Harry’s still pissed about C-SPAN, so now he’s trying to pile on until his fried brain is overwhelmed enough to reboot, so he can shoot him with a watch dart—but either way. He’ll take it.

In fact. Maybe he’ll take it a little too far.

He one hundred and twelve percent shouldn’t, but it’s not like that’s stopped him before. Why start now, right?

“You wanna see something cool?”

Harry shifts to a little smirk, like maybe he does, and Tony feels his own face pull into Fourth Grade Science Fair mode. God, it’s been a long time. Before he can change his mind, he bounds over to the workstation and lays his palm flat on the surface, rippling blue fingerprints, then raises it about two feet. A 3D projection of the Mark II rises underneath. He crosses his arms, glances toward Harry, shifts from one foot to the other, and waits.

It’s already taking too long. This is the longest anybody has ever stared at anything without a classifiable expression. Even for a British guy. Including those guards in the fuzzy hats.

“Okay, you gotta gimme something, here.”

Taking a few steps around the edge, Harry lightly bats a hand through the projection, sending it spinning lazily counterclockwise.

“Who said you could touch my hologram? Don’t touch my hologram.”

“Is this it, then?” Harry’s eyes move up and down the soft blue figure in front of him, like he’s trying to imagine the tangible version in all its glory. “What you built to escape?”

“No. Better. Way better. But the general concept, yes. This would be the Mark Two. I haven’t built it yet. Working on it.”

“And you intend to pilot this?”

“I don’t even let Happy drive my Roadster; you think I’m gonna loan out flying armor?”

He stands there and watches while Harry paces slowly around the table. People-watching is usually kinda fun, but he keeps forgetting how goddamn frustrating it is when your subject’s a spy. And a deliberator. And Harry, specifically. He never gives you anything. He’s just studying, taking it in, possibly making mental notes, and Tony has to physically fight the urge to remind him that none of those things count as an actual reaction. 

Finally, just before his mouth can fly open, Harry speaks, but what comes out still isn’t exactly an opinion.

“Do you know what they’re saying about you?” he poses. He’s still examining the projection.

Tony’s eyebrows do a quick jump. “Uh, that I’ve lost it? That I shouldn’t be reintroduced to society? That I’m dating Tara Reid? False, by the way.”

“That you’ve changed.”

Trilling a few fingers upward, Harry separates the hologram into segments, and Tony forgets to gripe about it this time. Mostly because he forgot ever showing him how to do that. At some point he must’ve, unless Kingsman has the same tech, but even if they do, that’s not the reminder he’s impressed by. It’s that Harry catches everything. And keeps it.

“For the first time, you’re candid with the press, you question your father’s legacy, you claim to be through with weapons production… They say they hardly recognize you.”

Harry descends his downturned palm, collapsing the image back into a single, cohesive figure. Head, torso, arms, legs. He leaves it there.

“But I do,” he says. “Better than I have in ages.” And then he casts a sage, sideways smile, like he’s been waiting all this time to let it out. The gentlest nod of approval follows. “You really have come home.”

Just like that, it dawns on him. The hindsight that doesn’t usually hit ’til he’s screwed something up, except this time, it’s different. It’s gratitude. That he didn’t lock the door.

Harry brought exactly what he needed.

Harry knew he needed it before _he_ did. Just like always.

He _is _home.

Not like he’s gonna monologue about it or anything. The only thing worse than getting sand-napped and maimed is being the guy who comes back sounding like the last five minutes of _Full House_ every time he opens his mouth. It wouldn’t be like him to get misty-eyed all of a sudden just because Harry believes in him, supports him, restored some of the fragile status quo of the universe, blah, blah, blah. That’s how the terrorists win. All he does is bob his head appreciatively, stuff his hands in his pockets, and swallow down the ninja swell of sentimentality that surprise validation always gives him. There’s no need for that. They’re both adults.

“So you’re not gonna yell about how insane this is,” he checks hesitantly. Y’know, like an adult.

“Oh, I am. Quite loudly, I’d imagine, and for some time,” Harry clarifies neatly, so there goes that dream, dead before it started. He’s still doing the proud face thing, though, and adds, “But not today. Given the occasion, I… I believe there’s no reason it can’t be put off, at least for the time being.”

Well. How about that.

Tony checks his watch. It’s not that late. Plenty of daylight left. “I’m guessing you’ve gotta get back before Henry the Eighth gets pissed.”

“Not until noon tomorrow. I’d planned to make it a proper visit, if you’d like the company.”

There’s really no room on the agenda for that. He’s on a timetable here. He’s got measurements to upload. Joints to solder. Those blueprints aren’t gonna build themselves.

Vaguely, he flashes back to being six again, but not for the same reasons as before. This time, he’s on his old living room rug; the one his mother brought back from Bengal. He’s putting together a circuit board. Jarvis is busy, and his dad isn’t there, but someone else is. Some Peggy Carter-sounding teenager who keeps saying…_‘Wonderful job, Tony! Absolutely brilliant!’_

Fine. So that’s sentiment. Screw it. He almost died.

“I could use an extra set of hands,” Tony says, and allows just a little bit of a grin. Not _that_ giddy. “You wanna see the repulsor tech?”

It breaks out in full as Harry matches him, turning up his sleeves. “I’d like that. Very much.”


End file.
